


Deal With You

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Manipulation, Not Exactly Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 17:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17626700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: After the debacle on Lothal resulting in the destruction of the fuel depot, Thrawn made a threat to deal with Governor Pryce later.  And he does.





	Deal With You

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the Thryce Discord for being such a bad/good influence and to staticsticks for being such a supportive beta.

_Blue eyes downcast, thin brows drawn together. Breath shaking, beads of sweat along her hairline. Posture slumped, shoulders lowered. Vocal tone in higher register, head shaking involuntarily._

“I will deal with you when I return, Governor.”

_Widening of eyelids, biting of lower lip, arms moving without purpose, hand clenching the dead Jedi’s weapon. Mouth parted, closed, parted again. Silence._

Grand Admiral Thrawn turned from Governor Pryce’s stricken face, gave instructions to Rukh, and closed the comm connection with an uncharacteristic slam. He sat heavily down behind his desk, pulse racing. His own breathing was more rapid than he would have liked, and he took a moment to slow it, deliberately, methodically.

 _What had the woman been thinking?_ Thrawn was more than annoyed, he was disappointed. He’d thought of Arihnda Pryce as a worthy colleague, someone who had followed his orders, respected his methods, provided him with advice and…

 _And what?_ His formidable brain dared him to finish the sentence. 

And what, indeed? Companionship, perhaps, there was that. Thrawn didn’t have friends, but he had trusted the Governor, and she’d lied to him. Treated him like a fool. It was more than insulting. It was close to unforgivable. Trust wasn’t something earned cheaply nor given easily with the Grand Admiral. To have one of the few Imperials he’d offered it to just toss it away like this…

 _Disappointing,_ he thought again, ignoring the slight ache in his chest. 

He would have to deal with her. Perhaps his threat had been a bit dramatic, but there _had_ to be consequences. 

The Chiss wasn’t in the habit of executing those who failed him, and had no such intent for Pryce. There was history between them, and Thrawn didn’t feel justice would be served by her death. But the Governor couldn’t be allowed to continue unpunished in her role, and Thrawn knew if he revealed her monumental error in judgement to the Empire, it would be a death sentence.

His red eyes closed, and Thrawn considered the options. 

Pryce had gifted an immense victory to the Rebels. He had no doubt that even at this moment she was attempting to compensate for the damage that her hubris and lack of foresight had wreaked, not only on the fuel depot, but on the TIE Defender program writ large.

She would fail, of course; there was no reasonable or logical way to balance such a loss. And unlike his crew, whose faults could often be redirected in more productive ways, Thrawn could not come up with a similar approach to shift Pryce’s trajectory. The woman was consumed with revenge, blinded by ambition, and unable to accept responsibility. All three irked him, but the last was the one that Thrawn found most reprehensible. Indefensible in a leader, but still intolerable in a subordinate. 

Pryce was _supposed_ to be a leader and, despite her lack of military experience, she should have known better.

And she’d _lied._ Tried to cover up her failings rather than accept and learn from them.

Thrawn opened his eyes and allowed himself a sigh, the volume surprising him in the empty office. It wasn’t a sound he indulged in often. He took a deep breath, inexplicably looking at his hands, folded neatly on the immaculate desktop. They felt heated; angry blood coursing through his veins and turning his blue skin a deeper shade of indigo.

Governor Pryce had upset him.

Despite his intention to remain longer on Coruscant, Thrawn decided quickly, not tactically. He would return to Lothal and deal with the Rebels—and the Governor—himself. He’d already made his case for the TIE Defender project to the Emperor, and received assurances of the same support as previous. 

Of course, given the recent destruction of supplies and production facilities, it was by no means certain he would enjoy that same aegis for much longer. Still, he had nothing pressing that drew his attention as much as the situation on the planet Lothal. And its sector’s Governor, Arihnda Pryce.

~~

A few days later, the Chimaera was in orbit over Lothal, and Thrawn stood in his quarters, considering his appearance. He looked critically at his reflection, smoothing a stray hair back into place. 

His haircut was shorter than Imperial Navy regulations, by design. Easy to maintain, easy to manage. His uniform was less so, requiring more work to fit smoothly over his muscles, the arms especially requiring extra attention to twist into the sleeves without causing wrinkles along the biceps, which strained the rigid material. His rank plate was straight, belt level across his flat torso. Tight pants lay evenly against his legs, boots shining like a new star. RK-3 blaster holstered at his hip, gleaming with the same polish as his boots. He didn’t expect trouble, but Thrawn was anything but unprepared.

The comm crackled.

“Grand Admiral, your shuttle is ready to depart at your convenience.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Thrawn replied, returning his gaze to the mirror. He still hadn’t decided as to the appropriate punishment for Governor Pryce, and wanted a final moment to consider his options. 

He had threatened her, and Grand Admiral Thrawn did not make idle threats. The Governor’s fearful reaction to his words had proven she understood the depth of his displeasure. 

Still…he would not kill her. He’d already done her an enormous favor by keeping her deception from the Empire. Yet Thrawn himself could not disregard the tremendous error of her judgement, her disregard of consequences, her inability to accept responsibility, and above all, her lack of respect for their…

Another phrase his brain resisted finishing. …Relationship? Understanding? Their mutually beneficial partnership to aid the Empire and consolidate its power throughout the galaxy, yes. It wasn’t about him, or her. Or them. It was bigger, larger. Thrawn nodded at his own reflection as if he’d proven a theorem. 

Since his return to the planet’s atmosphere, he had been deliberately unavailable to her office, the Protocol division unable to reach him to arrange the normal courtesies and welcomes. 

Thrawn had notified the Governor via sterile, diplomatic channels of his request for a private audience. Not at her convenience, of course. He had set the time and date. 

The response was a simple and respectful confirmation from her secretary, with the unexpected information that the Governor would welcome the Grand Admiral to her official residence at the appointed day and hour. Yes, was the reply, he would be there, no, an official escort would not be required.

This was an interesting tactic, and one Thrawn respected as worthy of an opponent. An encounter on unfamiliar terrain—perhaps designed to appeal to a sense of propriety, or impress him with its majesty, or place him off-balance in the unusual situation of being invited to an Imperial Governor’s personal home. Or maybe even to imply there was something cordial about this meeting.

There was not.

Still, Thrawn was intrigued by the site designated, and if that had anything to do with why it took him three times as long as usual to be satisfied with his physical appearance, he would not have been conscious of it.

Before leaving, he checked himself a final time.

_Pulse steady. Breathing even. Eyes clear, narrow. Uniform neat, squared away, jaw set._

He looked like he was going into battle. Or perhaps to negotiate a surrender.

~~

Thrawn had arrived at the Governor’s mansion accompanied by his stormtrooper bodyguards, but instructed them to wait with the speeder until his return. He walked the wide, paved path to a red double door which flashed once as he reached it, no doubt notifying some nearby security of his arrival. Only seconds later, they swished open, and Thrawn stepped inside a white, unfurnished hallway. No one attended him.

Another interesting tactic. Resting one hand lightly on his hip, Thrawn took a step further into the house, senses alert.

“Grand Admiral, thank you so much for coming.” The familiar voice was thin, but smooth, and he turned to his left, seeing the Governor emerge from a side portal. Her words were not the only unexpected thing about her. 

Pryce wore a plain black dress, not her standard slate grey uniform. It looked comfortable rather than decorative, wrapped in an interesting, crisscross manner over her breasts and tied about her waist with a light blue rope in a Keldabe anchoring bend. The intricacy of the knot was a fascinating counterpoint to the simplicity of the fabric beneath it, and Thrawn found himself staring. How had the Governor come to have knowledge of something so specific to Mandalorian culture? He had underestimated her, he realized. The revelation gave him pause. In what other ways had he underestimated her?

She smiled carefully, ignoring his gaze, spreading her hands in welcome. “Apologies that you were not greeted properly. The time you appointed is outside of the household staff’s working hours.” She nodded at him, the smile still fixed to her lips. “Please…come inside.”

_Slight elevation of heart rate, pulse visible in her neck. Hands steady, skin lightly flushed._

“Thank you, Governor Pryce,” Thrawn responded, still perplexed by the artistic tie of her garment, but forcing himself to focus on his mission here. It was not a social call—it was, he intended, to be an informal type of court martial. She must admit her fault, plead guilty, and accept whatever punishment he deemed fit.

It bothered Thrawn that he still hadn’t been able to perfectly formulate his plan for her penalty, but he had justified this lapse by deciding it would be at least partially determined by her acceptance of responsibility and admission of her numerous mistakes.

He followed her into a windowless sitting room, a rather old-fashioned salon decorated with paintings depicting scenes of daily life on Lothal. Thrawn recognized the city square in Kothal, and the landscape of Jalath, but much of the subject matter was new to him. It was largely unremarkable, executed by someone of meager talent, no doubt a local whose work would never be renowned off-world. Perhaps a struggling artistic relation of a former Governor, to have earned such visible placement in the residence.

“May I get you a drink, Grand Admiral?” Pryce turned and looked at him, gesturing to a wet bar, her eyes unreadable, and he found this the most disconcerting thing about the whole scenario. 

_Her throat muscles relax partially._

She was almost at ease, and that was most definitely not as it should be.

“No, Governor, I believe we both should be … clearheaded, for this discussion.” Thrawn kept his voice hard, feeling his own heartbeat increase marginally, taking a slow breath to calm himself. 

“Of course,” Pryce nodded smoothly, and reached for a carafe of water, pouring them both glasses without asking if he’d like one. 

She crossed the room and sat down on a rather ugly chair, decorated in what Thrawn assumed was a tapestry related to the glory of Lothal’s ancient agricultural heritage. It looked splotched with embroidered attempts at seeds and grains, and was offensive to the eyes in every way imaginable—colors, textures, placement all incongruous with artistic merit.

Pryce waited for him to sit, which he did, on a less garish chair positioned at a forty-five degree angle to hers. Before he could acknowledge his own error in doing so—after all, standing above another was a power position for any confrontation—Pryce had leaned over and handed him the glass of water she’d poured him. He took it automatically, and equally automatically noted the way her dress parted over her cleavage as she did so. 

She did not appear to be wearing a bra. 

It was…distracting. Thrawn narrowed his eyes. Surely Pryce wasn’t trying to seduce him? 

“Shall I begin?” she offered, only a small tremor in her voice at the end of the question betraying any degree of uncertainty. 

_Her pitch is strange but unchanging, her jaw muscles stiff. A small, asymmetrical wrinkle appears at the edge of her forehead._

Thrawn found it almost as distracting as the view of her décolletage: that tremble hinging on fearful, seeking reassurance, combined with the aura of confidence she also was projecting. He took a sip of the water, looking sternly at her over the rim of the glass, taking his time.

He wished to respond in the affirmative, but already recognized that he had surrendered too much ground in the few minutes he’d been inside her house. The foreign terrain of a personal residence was indeed enough to put him on his back foot, and allowing her to direct not only the setting, but also the conversation, would be an unrecoverable mistake.

“No, Governor,” his tone was condemning, a glare locked firmly on her face now. “I shall begin.” Thrawn set down the glass on the small table to his right, already feeling better with it out of his hand. 

_Her breath hitches, the expression of calm slips. Her eyes narrow and then widen again, as if she forgot her role. Her posture is rigid, her nostrils flaring. She is calculating; defensive and seeking escape._

“As you wish, of course, Grand Admiral.” Pryce also put down her glass of water, right next to his, and then leaned back in the hideous chair. Her legs crossed, offering a long expanse of skin for his eyes. The skin shone smooth, pale, one foot looped around the other ankle.

Thrawn took one decisive breath, formulating his opening barrage.

“Governor Pryce, your recent, unconsidered actions have caused irreparable damage to the Empire, the TIE Defender project, and your position as a reliable asset on Lothal.” The words came out with undisguised vehemence. Thrawn had thought he was beyond this level of emotion, given the time, the distance, but it was too raw and close to the surface. Despite his attempts to treat this otherwise, he deeply felt her inadequacies. 

“You have proven yourself _untrustworthy.”_ Thrawn spat the word at her, wishing again he were not sitting down but unwilling to give her the satisfaction of noting his error. “Should the Empire be informed of your duplicity and responsibility for the destruction of the fuel depot—”

“I would be dead.” She interrupted, her face blank, the words stark.

“Yes,” Thrawn agreed, glad she understood the severity of her failure. “And—”

He fully intended to continue, but Pryce interrupted again.

“Why haven’t you reported me?”

The words cut him. He’d hoped, he supposed, that she would simply be grateful that he hadn’t. But her eyes were clear, the question blatant, and it was Thrawn’s turn to feel trapped.

“My motives are irrelevant,” he answered, hoping to move on before having to examine the topic. “What is relevant is that we must determine an appropriate way forward. You, of course, should—”

Pryce stood abruptly, taking the one small step necessary to stand exactly in front of where he sat, and Thrawn quickly rose from the chair, towering over her. He would not cede a position of power to this woman.

“I should do what?” she asked, face turned up to him, the question somehow weaponized, but how exactly he couldn’t discern.

_Pulse fluttering in her throat, pupils slightly dilated, lips open. The left corner of her mouth turns down._

Thrawn pulled his mind back to the question. 

“Resign the Governorship. You are not well-suited to this role, Miss Pryce.”

He reverted to her former title unthinkingly, something about her proximity and the way she was looking at him keeping him off-balance. He would not have moved back, but the chair was at his calves, and its position bothered him instinctively. There was nowhere to go.

Thankfully, his suggestion seemed to have suitably upset her, and Pryce took two steps away, freeing Thrawn to subtly distance his legs from the barrier behind them.

“Resign?” Her eyes flashed a challenge. “You may consider me ill-suited to the task, Grand Admiral, but imagine the alternatives! Do you honestly think someone like Sarkos could do a better job? Would listen to _you,_ trust your strategic instincts?”

The emphasis on the pronoun bothered him, and Thrawn took a moment to consider why. Was she implying something related to his species? Or simply his tactics? He didn’t like either option, and anger, cold and sharp, washed over him. When he replied, his voice was chilled, barely above a whisper.

“You are reckless, Governor. You do not consider consequences or alternatives. You are driven by personal vendettas.” He took a step closer to her, pleased to see she matched it with a step backwards. This was more like the controlling dynamic he had sought. “Your instability has cost the Empire much.”

He’d struck a nerve.

_Breathing is audible now, eyes unfocused, hands twist together, then twine into the sides of her dress. Her mouth parts, tongue darts to the side and hides again. Her scent somehow shifts in the room._

“I trusted you,” she finally said, something defeated in the tone. 

Thrawn was surprised and annoyed by this defensive maneuver to shift blame.

“As I trusted you,” he retorted, an edge of cruelty shadowing his words. “And my reward was your failure and deception.”

For a horrible fraction of a second, Pryce’s face crumbled, and then reformed, setting itself once more in a mask of righteousness. She took a small step to the side, as if to dodge him.

_Her neck is rigid, musculature tense. Lines appear along her forehead. Her body temperature rises. Breathing slows._

“I believed at the time that it was the right decision.” Her chin tilted up in defiance. “For the Empire.”

“For the Empire,” he repeated, softly, dangerously.

“Yes.” She heard the warning in Thrawn’s voice, and refused to retreat.

“One dead Jedi. Over an entire fuel depot.”

“Yes.” She repeated the affirmation.

Thrawn’s eyes met hers and he read conviction within, erroneous as it was. If she couldn’t admit her fault, perhaps he _should_ kill her. Those who are irredeemable are better off where they can do the least damage. Perhaps she saw this contemplation in his face, as Pryce broke his gaze, looking down at the handwoven carpet on the salon floor.

“At the time,” she amended, repeating her earlier phrase. She inhaled sharply. “I was wrong.”

Thrawn was silent, considering, a faint ripple of relief settling into his chest. Pryce continued.

“Surely you can understand—” A quick glance at Thrawn’s face was enough to tell her he did not. “The battle, the speed and confusion of it all…the adrenaline.” 

Her eyes met his again and she spoke plainly. 

“You were not there to advise me, Grand Admiral.”

The last sentence shouldn’t resonate as much as it did. Thrawn had not considered taking responsibility for her failure. Did he bear some of the burden for her foolish decision? It was hard to think, with the blue of her eyes too close to him, her aura too strong and desperate.

“I was not,” he allowed, trying to rationalize and formulate a sufficient response. Her eyes didn’t leave his.

“You were not,” she echoed, almost as if she was forgiving him this reality. 

And Thrawn knew then, abruptly, certainly, that he most definitely had underestimated her. She understood his sense of obligation to his crew, his troops. She was asking for that to extend to her, trying to draw his mantle of leadership over her failings like a blastshield against his wrath. And it was working. 

Thrawn left her alone on the planet without sufficient direction, without a military commander to guide her efforts and control her worst impulses. And he had been aware of them—she had never hid them. Thrawn knew how personal slights and twisted histories had scarred the woman before him; she had confided in him. Injustice and ambition had forged her into something stronger than the doonium their Empire plundered from her planet.

“That’s why you’re protecting me,” she whispered.

_Her voice is too soft, secretive. Her lips part, her neck arcs, chin tilting towards him, warmth radiating from her skin._

“I am not protecting you,” Thrawn growled, not believing it himself. “I am here to punish you.”

The words were meant to be harsh, but the result was counter to his intent. Pryce’s full mouth twisted slightly, as if she wasn’t certain she was permitted a smile. Then she lifted a hand, _reaching_ for him, about to dust her fingers over his chest, his rank insignia. Thrawn caught her wrist reflexively, feeling her pulse thrum beneath his fingers. His head turned slowly, evaluating her hand in his like he’s captured an exotic specimen.

_White skin is heated, turning pink in his hand, blood pumping a rhythm between them. Her breath catches, suddenly uneven. She moves closer to him, but he hasn’t drawn her in. Her fingers curl slightly, his thumb slides up from the center of her wrist to the middle of her palm._

He doesn’t let go. She doesn’t pull back.

Hesitantly, almost like a test, Pryce slowly lifted her other hand, this time reaching for his face. Again, Thrawn trapped her wrist along its trajectory in his strong fingers, closing around the delicate bone tighter than necessary. This time his movement was not a reflex. It was deliberate and firm. 

She sucked in a breath, her eyes moving from his face to her hands and back to meet his gaze. Pryce opened her mouth and Thrawn’s eyes bore a warning to reconsider. 

Her lips pressed back together and Thrawn was immediately, undeniably fighting the urge to kiss her. His mind sought a reprieve, struggling with her elevated body heat so close, her obviously willing demeanor. Was it an act, some desperate attempt at seduction to postpone his sentence for her failure?

_Her arms are tense, muscles locked. Her nipples tighten, rising to stretch the thin fabric covering her chest. Her neck looks reddened, body temperature rising. Her eyes…_

Her eyes communicated nothing other than her boldness, her refusal to retreat. Thrawn had little idea how long they had been fixed in this position. His hands tightened on her wrists. He would not be taken for a fool. When he spoke, his voice was low, almost menacing.

“A tactical diversion, Governor?”

She seemed almost offended, leaning back but stopped by his hold on her arms. Thrawn waited for an answer, lowering her wrists away from his chest, but not letting go. They pulsed between his fingers near her waist.

“That…” Pryce looked away, her eyes moving to follow the line of his arms to her hands. “That was not my intent, Grand Admiral.”

Thrawn let go then, his fingers tingling from the sudden release of muscular stress. Her eyes widened but stayed fixed to her own hands, clasped before her now.

He knew the logical question to follow up, and resisted. He no longer trusted her, after all, and whether or not Pryce was conscious of her intent or not, her body was transmitting something that he doubted she could fake or imitate. Even now, the heat in her skin was rising to her face, her heartbeat so loud he thought he could hear it. Or was that his own? 

He suddenly wanted to step back, to retreat, regroup. His breathing was no longer controlled, whether it was from annoyance at his duty here or the maddening reaction of this woman to his presence was uncertain. And Thrawn did not like being uncertain. He resisted the urge to put distance between them, forcing himself to breathe through the tension in the air. What had he been saying, before her hand hovered so close to his chest?

Thoughts were scattered in his typically ordered mind, and Thrawn reviewed them as best he could. The Governor refused to resign. She believed him her protector. A warmth in his lower stomach appeared, and was summarily ignored. 

Thrawn blinked, contemplating. Pryce was not accepting or convinced of his authority here, manipulating him, clearly, even if she herself was not adverse to or entirely conscious of her chosen methods. Her unconsidered touch had become a weapon, her simple words liabilities, her inexplicable reactions thwarting analysis as well as threatening his resolve.

“You will resign.” Thrawn could think of nothing else to say, and no other punishment he could devise. His brain was starting to feel soft, untethered to logic.

“I will not.” There was no pause between his command and her response. Pryce surprised him with her surety, the even tone.

“You prefer execution?”

His words were flat, breathing returning to normal, and Thrawn felt if this were the case, there was nothing left to say. If he could not convince her to abandon her course, she was too unpredictable to leave in place. The Grand Moff would have to agree, and if not, the Emperor would. 

“I prefer to regain your trust, Grand Admiral.”

She had precisely, perfectly named the issue, and Thrawn once again found himself in admiration of her self-possession and perception. Pryce rightly understood that his trust was the essence upon which this meeting hinged, on which her future depended. It should have been more complicated, should have been loftier, tied to Imperial assets and operating efficiency. But those concerns were secondary for them both.

Thrawn was equal parts unsettled and approving of her insight, and turned away from her, reaching for the water glass he’d discarded earlier.

The liquid was hot on his tongue.

When he set the glass back on the table, Thrawn felt more in control. It was a welcome return to himself.

_Her temperature still elevated, breathing slower, eyes rounded and moist, lines showing tension in the drawn mouth, posture straight._

“Where did you learn to tie a Keldabe anchoring bend?” he asked. 

The non-sequitur had the desired effect, and Thrawn watched momentary confusion flicker across those blue eyes with satisfaction.

“I didn’t…” Pryce closed the distance between them once more, tugging at the rope around her illustratively. It loosened, lengthened along her curves. This time, Thrawn did not consider moving away from her.

“It came this way, you just step in and tighten, and pull the other way to step out.” She smiled at something half-remembered. “It was an inauguration gift from Mandalore.”

The cord was now carelessly draped around her waist, and Thrawn fought the urge to _removetighten_ it. He liked how it looked there, precariously balanced on her angular hips, and smiled thinly as he dispassionately evaluated his own reaction. He must regain the upper hand, and commenting on her fashion choices was evidently not the way to do it.

“Of course,” he managed, the low rumble of his voice sounding far too interested in the subject. Not the dismissive tone he desired.

“Of course,” she repeated, making no move to tighten the knot.

Thrawn was uncomfortable in an unfamiliar and unwelcome way. His purpose here had been clouded, and while he doubted Governor Pryce had a well-formed strategy in mind, he did not doubt that her overarching intent was self-preservation, by whatever means necessary. 

He, therefore, must not be dissuaded or distracted from the point of this rendezvous. Namely, to have her admit to her errors and determine the appropriate price for her to pay in restitution. Thrawn wanted it clear, obvious, to them both. He dragged his attention away from her hips and the clinging dress outlining them. The infrared of his vision was highlighting body heat in places that were unhelpful to his concentration.

“Governor…” His red eyes hardened, renewed commitment to his goal reflected there. “You will _admit_ your failings regarding the events surrounding the destruction of the fuel depot. You are _aware_ of the consequences of your decisions. You _accept_ responsibility for your actions.”

“Yes, Grand Admiral Thrawn,” Pryce agreed without pause, a small sigh escaping her lungs. “I admit, I am aware, and I accept.”

“Yet you still refuse to resign?”

“I suggest an alternative.”

Thrawn raised an eyebrow, curiosity shading his expression too late to stifle or deny the impulse.

“You…” she bit her lip, then looked down, avoiding his stare. “You promised to ‘deal with me’ upon your return to Lothal. Those were your words.”

Yes, he remembered quite well. Thrawn felt his breath catch at the sudden hesitation in her voice. He was not going to assist. Whatever she was proposing, she would have to say it.

Her round blue eyes lifted then, turned to his narrowed red ones as if seeking confirmation of her recollection. Thrawn nodded once, briefly, no more than a quick jerk of his head to indicate he was listening.

“That…seems like an alternative.” 

Thrawn understood now, or thought he did, but he wasn’t going to make this easy for her. If she was asking what he thought…

“Explain.” His voice was cold, a distance there his body was unable to replicate.

“Deal with me. Directly. Personally.”

Earlier, Pryce’s physical responses had indicated a broad range of emotions, from fear to arousal. Yet somehow this brazen request gave her renewed confidence, and her gaze turned steady, eyes burning into his. She was still too comfortable, too secure. She was excited at the prospect of his “punishment,” it was clear. 

It was equally clear to Thrawn that the truly punishing alternative then, would be rejection—an unambivalent refusal to entertain her suggestion or indulge in whatever fantasy she had invented regarding their encounter this evening.

Would that be punishing them both? Thrawn wondered. 

He did wish to inflict that upon her, if only to have her bear the same sting he’d suffered at her betrayal of his trust. It would be a simple thing. A return to the ruthless, sustaining power of solitude. Yet... 

She was silent, awaiting his reply. He found he had one, and was grateful at the ice he managed to inject into the words.

“A suitable punishment, Governor, should be unwelcome.”

_A flush rising in her cheeks, temperature skyrocketing, eyes dilated, breath louder, heartbeat trebling._

His analysis was interrupted by her touch, nothing tentative about the hands that slid with a firm pressure up the forearms of his military tunic.

“A punishment is retribution for an offense, Grand Admiral. If the offender is genuinely contrite, surely it should be welcomed?”

His arms turned inside and up, supporting hers just before the elbows. Her fingers rested lightly on the stiff white material of his uniform.

“And are _you_ genuinely contrite, Governor Pryce?” His voice was soft, his hands tightening on the smooth skin that was hot to touch.

Thrawn recognized this banter for what it was, a prelude to a pretense. He did not expect a considered response and swallowed his surprised reaction at her next sentence.

“The loss of your regard has been the most painful outcome of my failure, Grand Admiral.” There was no artifice in the words or tone that he could detect. “I would very much like your forgiveness.”

_Her lower lip trembles, eyes holding shadows, her brow furrows, the indentation in her cheek as her jaw clenches rhythmically in counterpoint to the rasp of her breath, the press of her breasts against her dress as her intake of air increases._

He had no more patience, his awareness narrowing, his disbelief in this unanticipated progression in their relationship no longer sufficient to temper his desire for her. Whatever Thrawn had abruptly decided, Pryce saw, interpreted, understood.

As if following well-rehearsed choreography, her hands slid further up his sleeves, over tight biceps, arms settling around his neck. Simultaneously, his fingers glided from her lifting elbows to her waist, fingers catching in the soft cloth and pulling her hips roughly against the line of his body. 

Their lips met far more gently than the tension surrounding them demanded. Thrawn sensed no hesitation however, only a delicate, sighing surrender to his mouth. Her body moved, pressed against his, but everything felt weighted, slowed by circumstance or import.

Pryce’s hands continued their ascent, running along his collar and the nape of his neck as Thrawn deepened the kiss, pushing the woven rope from her hips and hearing it settle with a satisfying thud on the carpet. Her small tongue licked his lips in response, the heat of her suddenly burning, her hands becoming hard against his skull, fingertips pressing on his scalp.

Thrawn moved his hands inside the wrapped V of the dress’ neckline, pushing it down over Pryce’s shoulders. Her hands left him to allow the fabric to pool at her feet on the floor.

He’d been correct—she wasn’t wearing a bra. Or any underwear at all. Thrawn buried the extrapolated conclusion—that this was all premeditated or calculated— in a deliberate refusal to speculate.

Her body was all angles and hard lines, her breasts somehow incongruously curved when set against her edges. Instead of looking exposed, Pryce appeared powerful; there was something fierce and brave about her nudity before him. Before he had time to contemplate or consider further, she threw herself at him, her mouth hungry, muscles taut and energized by his capitulation.

And it _was_ a capitulation, Thrawn acknowledged this without regret and only a twinge of self-reproach, even if a different sort of victory attended him. Carnal gratification was most definitely not why he had come here, but had supplanted his original purpose without apparent loss to either side. He could admit he wanted her; it wasn’t as if Thrawn could argue the facts at this point regardless, even if once he would have perhaps entertained that level of self-denial.

He caught Pryce in his arms, appropriating her passion and absorbing it, feeling his own body respond to her heat and need. Her fingers fumbled at his belt as their mouths locked together, her bare breasts rubbing against the rough material of his uniform. 

Thrawn undid his holster one handed, keeping her body pressed tight to his as he deposited the belt on the closest chair. Thin fingers grabbed at his shirt, finding hidden clasps and pulling. Thrawn’s last remnants of control blurred and disintegrated as smooth hands slid between the waistband of his pants and his skin.

Pryce’s urgency was contagious. For someone like Thrawn, whose entire existence was measured and plotted, he found himself unwilling to resist the taste of frantic want on her tongue, the needful explorations of her fingers, the impatient press of her crotch as she straddled his leg.

Shrugging off his tunic, Thrawn set it somewhere behind him as Pryce grabbed at his undershirt, lifting it higher and started a path with her tongue up the lines of his abdomen. He facilitated its removal, adding the shirt to the growing pile of clothes as eager lips continued traveling up his sternum. Thrawn stopped her progression with his mouth, ducking his head to seal their lips. He withdrew his leg from between hers, crushing her to his torso. Pryce groaned at the loss of pressure and raked her nails down his back.

His hands gripped her ass and Pryce raised one leg over his hip, completely unconcerned with the fact of their unequal state of undress. But they could hardly proceed without him losing his boots and pants, and Thrawn placed a hand beneath her other thigh. She took the hint, wrapping her legs around his waist. They didn’t go far, though, Thrawn merely depositing her on her back on the carpet as he kicked off his boots. Pryce squeezed her legs in a vise to prevent any escape, and Thrawn laughed softly at the ferocity of her needless attempts to keep him atop her.

The uncommon sound broke the madness of the moment for them both and Pryce’s legs relaxed. Slightly. If they wanted to stop or retreat, this was perhaps the only opportunity they would have. 

_Panting, nostrils flared, skin reddened, lips swollen, parted, and moist, hair disheveled, fingers resting lightly on his shoulders, suddenly hesitant, thighs tense. Eyes unfocused, pupils wide._

She did not want to stop. Nor did he. Thrawn allowed the mental admission to pass unguarded through his thoughts without dissecting it. He wasn’t one for bedroom conversation, and he had no idea what he would say to her if he were to attempt such a thing. Pryce opened her mouth, apparently willing to fill the void with some idle words, but he lowered his head instead, kissing her again to remove the possibility of pointless dialogue. 

The refined, heady sensation of Pryce melting beneath his weight was enough, in Thrawn’s mind, to justify whatever this was. She was soft and yielding and welcoming…the reality of it as unlikely as it was satisfying. Her body lifted into his, seeking contact.

Her hands were again dipping into his pants, and Thrawn grunted as he undid the fastenings. She pushed, sitting up slightly to help them down his thighs, and Thrawn bit back another laugh as they unceremoniously joined the pile. She was impatient. Too impatient, he abruptly realized.

Pryce expected him to change his mind if given the space to consider. It was not a good way to proceed, to his thinking, for her to question his desire or worse, short-circuit or refuse to contemplate her own actions. He was certain they wanted one another—she must be equally so.

Annoyed at the need to pause, his erection protesting the decided course of action before he could even draw back, Thrawn sat on his heels, hands resting lightly on the insides of her knees. Pryce’s legs fell open in a diamond-shape, arms confused by his inaction, graceless as they drifted downward from his skin.

She started to prop herself up on her elbows, mouth opening again to speak.

Thrawn held up a finger to silence her.

“Arihnda.”

That worked better than he’d expected, as she froze, but somehow calmed. 

_Muscles relaxing, mouth slack, eyes heavy, dark. Overheated._

Humans attached so much importance to names, and titles, and rank. The Chiss did as well, of course, but it was interesting to see how social conventions and roles could be so quickly subverted by taking liberties with mere address.

“Thrawn.”

He smiled, the Governor’s response of course appropriate, her tone almost lazy, not cautious. She was demonstrating the self-assurance that he both prized and wished to dilute when it swirled too concentrated, more toxic than attractive.

Inclining his head slightly in an elegant movement, as if they weren’t about to rut naked on the floor of her salon, Thrawn looked carefully into Pryce’s face, red eyes studying blue.

_Alertness returning, eyes less rounded, lips thinned. Caution, perhaps, evidenced by thready pulse._

“This…” Thrawn indicated himself, pressing his right hand lightly to his chest, then flipped it slowly back in her direction, “…is not necessary.” He saw confusion slide across her features and cast his memory to remember her words from before, and tried again. 

“This is not penance.”

She nodded, silent.

“Or punishment,” he added. 

Thrawn had no concerns himself, his ability to read her physical responses completely assuring him that Pryce was eager and ready for him, but he doubted she had similar insight or evidence regarding his own intentions.

A small sound, perhaps clearing her throat, arms straight behind her as she sat fully up, her legs still lying comfortably across his, a small smile playing at her lips.

“And if I ask nicely?”

It was not often that Thrawn was speechless, but once her tease resolved in his understanding, he lifted an amused eyebrow, humor flickering in the glow of his eyes.

She _had_ done as he’d asked—admitted, accepted her failings. Pryce was volatile. That wouldn’t change. But she was also pliable. And now, apparently, she was his.

Thrawn no longer felt conflicted. Her secret debacle was safe with him, and as long as he could trust her once more—the idea bringing a wry twist to his lips—there perhaps was no need for further examination of her miscalculations. It would not do, in any case, to dwell on something he was no longer willing to pursue to its appropriate consequence—namely, her removal. Shedding her political status would also expel her from his orbit.

Possibilities flooded his brain. Thrawn sorted them as they surfaced, unmoving from his kneeling position. 

The woman lay back, watching him openly. 

_Flush still on her cheeks, eyes narrowed in evaluation, lips pursed._

Thrawn met her regard with the same openness. He felt strangely comfortable as the object of her leer. But she’d asked a question. And he owed her an answer. 

“I will deal with you,” he finally murmured, lowering himself over her. “As promised.”

_Muscles tense, relax. Eyes widen, mouth open, air, cries escaping, heart racing, blood pressure increasing, rhythmic spasms, hands clenching…smiling._


End file.
